Many Happy Returns
by BuffySpike Shipper Society
Summary: Buffy celebrates her 21st Birthday with a little help from everyone's favorite bleached blond vampire. Set in the alternate season six SOGverse.


**Disclaimer: **The characters of Buffy the Vampire Slayer are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions, Inc. No copyright infringement is intended

**Rating:** PG-13. Contains some sexual content.

**Editor's Note:** This story is set in the Buffy/Spike Shipper Society's alternate season six universe known as the SOGverse. It takes place on Buffy's 21st Birthday. The events of the season six episode "Older and Far Away" are assumed to have never occurred. While reading the B/S SS fanfiction novel, "Shades of Gray" is not necessary, it is highly recommended in order to fully appreciate the Buffy/Spike relationship in this story.

Many Happy Returns

An SOGverse fic

Written by Merrin

She noticed him almost immediately. He brought some of the winter chill inside with him; it clung to his long, black leather duster, which he wore open, as if there were no need to protect himself against cold and wind.

She started to offer assistance, but he waved her away. Seemed he wanted to look at his own pace.

He considered the jewelry for a long time, crouching in front of the display case with his hands splayed on the glass. He seemed mesmerized by the glittering emerald earrings.

She pretended to rearrange the displays on the counter, and watched him out of the corner of her eye. She told herself it was because he might be a shady character, and it was her job. But that was only part of it, she admitted to herself. Just for her own amusement, she made up stories about him while she watched, without seeming to watch.

He was... a wannabe rock star? He had the slouch, with a hint of the rock-god sneer on his lips. And there was a slight resemblance to that eighties rocker, the one who sang 'White Wedding'. He reminded her a little of a couple of her son's friends: the ones who got a wary looking-over from her, because they 'smelled' like trouble.

He wore his clothing almost like a costume: black jeans, and heavy, black boots to go with the leather coat. Maybe he was a street hustler? His swaggering gait was practiced and confident, but he had a self-protective air, as if he had spent many years defending himself. Though he was slim, she could tell he was strong.

Just your ordinary, run-of-the-mill career criminal? There was bravado there, and no little arrogance. Maybe it was the way he touched the merchandise, as if he already owned it all.

She was fascinated by the sensual way he examined everything. He let his fingers drag across the leather straps of purses hanging from hooks. When he stopped to look at one in particular, he slid his palm slowly over the surface, smoothing his thumb over the embossed design on the front.

The charm bracelets and the hoop earrings caused him some amusement. He dangled them with one finger, while a smirk twisted his expressive mouth. After a while, he walked over to look at the scarves. He picked one up and studied it intently. It was made of the finest silk: a rich, jade green, patterned with finely drawn flower designs. He had good taste, she decided.

He let the scarf slide through his fingers, then stretched it out between his hands and turned it slowly, catching the light in its folds. That seemed to satisfy him. He brought it close, and let the silk glide luxuriously across his skin, pulling it over his face, over his bleach-blond hair.

She had just begun to wonder why she wasn't objecting loudly to such intimate handling of store goods, when she saw him slip the scarf deftly into the pocket of his duster.

She felt a ripple of shock, and silently reached for the phone underneath the counter. Before she could lift the receiver, he pulled the scarf out again. He shook his head slightly, then turned and headed toward her. She could feel the pulse point in the base of her neck fluttering.

He gave the scarf to her, silk pouring from his hand into hers; his fingertips brushed against her flesh, briefly. She felt a tremor, deep inside, and a vague hint of danger. She sensed that the person standing in front of her was someone... unlike. Uncanny.

But then, as she realized that she was hypnotized by his subtle mouth, with its generous lower lip, she decided it might be something a little more... frightening. At least for a divorced middle-aged woman who thought she was done with this kind of nonsense.

He looked into her confused eyes, 'Somethin' wrong, luv?'

Lovely, sexy British accent. In a split second, she fell over the edge of the proverbial cliff. She indulged herself with feeling a little dizzy, and a little infatuated. Or a lot. She'd worry later about how silly she was being. Much later. Right now... my god.

"No, no. Nothing wrong," she murmured, staring into his blue eyes. _So blue._

When she awoke from her momentary stupor, she realized that he was waiting for her. She fumbled to find the price tag and slid it past the scanner.

He shoved his slender fingers deep into the pocket of his jeans and fished out the asked-for payment. She thanked some deity or the other that her hand didn't shake as she took it from him.

"For someone special?" she asked as she counted out his change, remaining studiously intent on her task and avoiding his eyes.

"You could say that, yeah. A certain birthday girl," he said, taking the bag from her outstretched hand and sliding it into the pocket of his jacket.

She looked up at him. She saw the way his mouth softened; she saw the wonder in his eyes, and the tenderness. He must really love this woman, she thought.

She was surprised... no, aghast, at the sting of disappointment she felt.

He started to walk away, then paused, and turned back toward the counter.

"To tell you the truth, luv, I did think about nickin' the scarf."

She stared at him, unable to utter a sound.

"Old habits die hard, they tell me." He shrugged. His eyes had somehow taken on a neon intensity. "Thanks for not calling out the security brigade." He gave her a devastating smile that would still be on her mind hours later, then turned away from her again.

She watched him stride through the exit, back out into the winter darkness.

Buffy was stacking dishes next to the sink. Xander leaned against the counter, watching her.

"You sure scared the hell out of the pizza guy. He'll never approach a doorstep with an easy heart again."

"It's his own fault. Rapping on the door all sneaky-like, on my birthday."

"I think _somebody's_ a little gun shy about birthdays."

"Can you blame me? It's Buffy's birthday curse: you know the history."

"Yeah, but twenty-one is a magical number. I mean, the worst thing that happened tonight was hamburger flambé."

"You're pretty handy with a fire extinguisher," Buffy smiled.

Buffy headed into the living room, with Xander following. Anya was curled up on the sofa watching television.

"Kinda tense tonight," Anya said idly, dipping into a bowl for a massive handful of cheezits. "Is Tara ever going to let Willow off the hook for past magical misdeeds?"

"She's got to. I don't think Willow can stand it if she doesn't," Xander said.

"Ix-nay, guys," Buffy whispered. "Tara's upstairs studying, and she might not appreciate us making her a _Springer_ subject."

"What did El Watcher Grandioso have to say? Besides _Happy Birthday_?" Xander asked. "When's he coming back?"

"Didn't say. There's still council business to take care of, and research-stuff. He actually sounds like he's having a great time in soggy old England," Buffy said with a puzzled frown. "He was calling from his hotel room, he said, and..." she almost couldn't fathom the next bit, "I thought I heard girlish laughter in the background."

Xander and Anya were silent, trying to absorb the imagery.

Finally Xander spoke up, "Maybe it was _Giles_ laughing girlishly."

"I kinda don't think so," Buffy, said, snatching the last few cheezits just as Anya's orangey-powdered fingertips started to descend.

"Hey!" Anya protested, then she spotted a couple of cheezits perched on the front of her blouse and popped those into her mouth. "That was the weirdest present Giles sent you. When are you ever going to use something like that?'

"Yeah," Xander snorted. "A _book_."

Buffy glared at him, just a little.

'Not like what we got you, which is something every girl needs. And I should know," Anya said. "It's compact, runs quietly, and only needs 4 double-A batteries. I use mine to relieve stress."

"Yeah." Buffy's smile was a bit queasy. "Umm, big thanks, Anya. And Xander," Buffy said. She paused, and then asked, "What is it, exactly?"

"Silly, deprived slayer girl. It's a battery-operated fingernail buffer."

"Oh! Is _that_ what that is?" Xander asked.

"Yeah," Buffy said sheepishly, "Of course."

"So where was Spike tonight?"

"Don't know," Buffy said, with a determinedly casual tone. "I didn't invite him." A _tiny_ part of her, deep inside, winced, just the _tiniest_ bit, as she said it. She'd thought about inviting him: last night and many nights before, lying in his bed.

She shifted her thoughts quickly, afraid that her friends would be able to tell where her mind was straying. Instead, she was now going to think of... circus clowns. Uh huh. And little tiny clown cars. Yup.

"Since Spike's progressed from totally evil bloodsucker, to being a semi-ambiguous anti-hero with just a slight air of danger hanging over him, I figured he'd be here," Anya said, fixing Buffy with an owl-like stare.

Buffy prayed her inner squirminess wasn't visible. The last thing she needed was for her friends to put two and two together about her and Spike.

"Yeah. He should have been here. I wanted to try out my latest jokes on him." Xander leaned eagerly toward Buffy and Anya. "What did the vampire say to the female Fyarl demon?"

"Xander. _Please_." Anya held her hand up in the universal sign for _Stop_. "I've heard them all. In over a thousand years, you hear 'em all. And besides, you only do that to annoy him." She reached for her handbag on the floor by the sofa. "Let's talk about something really important," Anya said fervently, "The wedding."

Xander slid his ass forward on the sofa, and lay back against the cushions. Buffy wondered if the word 'wedding' was like a hypnotic trigger for him; he was snoring in less than three minutes.

"Buffy!"

"Huh?"

"Focus, please. You don't want me to wish that I gave the maid of honor _honor_ to Tara, do you?" Anya frowned.

Buffy's eyes widened as Anya leafed through a weighty stack of neatly printed 3x5 index cards.

"Maybe I _don't_," Buffy muttered, "And maybe I _do_."

"Let's talk table settings."

After Xander and Anya left, Buffy checked on Dawn, who was fast asleep and snoring, only a little less than Xander-type decibel levels.

Poor Dawnie; she really panicked when the skillet went up in flames. We've got to do something about her standard reaction to any and all crises, which is to shriek three times and run away.

Buffy shook her head at the mess that was Dawn's room.

Thank God she doesn't have to deal with anything more traumatic than finding an unused square of floor to pile more dirty clothes on. Who needs a hamper?

Out of nowhere, an unanticipated and _unwelcome_ flash of memory sent shivers wriggling down her spine. Buffy put a stop to it, firmly.

No! Over and done. Glory is dead. The knights of Byzantium are dead. Dawn's 'key-ness' is not an issue any more. She's just a normal, healthy, sweet, annoying fifteen-year-old girl. Who can't keep her room clean to save her life.

Buffy closed the door quietly, and crept down the hallway, creaking with every step.

Stupid leather pants! They look really hot, but they're so goddamn noisy.

Buffy knocked softly on the door to Tara's room.

"Come in."

When she swung open the door, she saw that Tara's bed was strewn with papers and books. Tara looked up at Buffy from the middle of the maelstrom.

"Hey, Tara. How's it going?"

"Alright. _Comparative Literature_ is just kicking my ass." Tara's eyes looked a little bleary, but her smile was brave.

"Sorry," Buffy chuckled. "Okay if I go out to patrol?"

"Of course," Tara nodded. "I'll be here."

"Thanks." Buffy turned to go.

"Buffy?" Tara's expression was solemn, maybe even a little grim. "Happy birthday?"

Buffy held one hand over her heart. "I swear, I had total, family fun. I'm a happy, happy birthday girl."

"Uh huh." Tara's tone was skeptical. "Tell Spike I said _Hello,_" she whispered, with a knowing smile.

Buffy frowned. "Gotta go. And who said I was gonna see whoozit?" she added with a little pinch of indignation. Also with the ever-present chagrin at Tara knowing about the..._whatever this thing is_, with Spike.

She headed down to the kitchen. S_o am I a terrible person if an uneventful birthday kind of bores me? It's what I want, though, right? Nice normal birthday. Nice normal life, with an empty space where a nice, normal boyfriend could fit._ She stumbled over that last part.

Yes! Normal. Meaning, not vampiric. Uh, vampirical? Anyway, not another vampire. No matter how good it might feel...

She couldn't allow her thoughts to continue too far along that path.

Buffy leaned her elbows on the kitchen counter, staring at the half-eaten birthday cake. It had a little stick-figure slayer, whose head was missing, because someone ate that piece. In one hand, the cake-land slayer carried a tiny pink stake, dripping droplets of red frosting.

Buffy scooped a fingerful of sugary icing into her mouth, and let it dissolve on her tongue while she stood motionless for a few moments. She straightened abruptly, grabbed her jacket off the back of a chair, and headed out the back door.

Buffy entered the crypt without knocking, swinging the door inward so hard that it banged loudly against the stone wall. Spike was sprawled in his chair, watching television.

He didn't get up, just turned his head.

"So..." She felt really stupid, standing in front of the door, while he sat looking at her. And she really didn't know how to start the conversation.

"How was the party?"

She couldn't think of one damn thing to say.

"Actually, the niblet invited me," he offered.

"Oh."

"But you didn't. Invite me, I mean."

"Oh." She wondered if he was trying to work on her guilt reflexes?

He hauled himself out of the chair and headed over to the stone sarcophagus on the other side of the room.

"When has the lack of an invitation from me ever stopped you from showing up anywhere?" Buffy asked, quashing the guilt firmly.

"True," he nodded, turning to face her, arms folded over each other. "I usually don't wait for the summoning of your royal highness. The same way you, my duchess, never knock when you enter someone's home." He said this with a glint of humor shining in his eyes.

When she had no answer, he added softly, "Happy birthday, Buffy."

For some reason, she couldn't look at him, "You don't have to say that."

"Well, on a day like today, what does a fella say to his girl?" He reached out toward his leather duster, which was lying on the stone sarcophagus.

Why did her hands suddenly feel like ice? "Don't call me that. That's _not_... what I am."

Buffy's harsh, low tone seemed to surprise him. His hand froze in its movement, and remained suspended over the black coat.

Her heart quailed for a second. She studied his profile, but she discerned no tremor of emotion: he was a statue.

"You're right, pet. Stupid of me." The softness she had heard in his voice a moment ago was gone, replaced by a rasping tension. His hand resumed its movement, and slid smoothly into the pocket of his duster. "Why are you here, Slayer?"

His question irritated her; she didn't answer because she didn't _have_ an answer. Instead, she watched silently as he searched for something in the coat pocket; when he pulled his hand out, she saw that he was holding a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

Spike tilted his head back, and looked at her from under half-closed eyelids, "So, yeah. Happy birthday, Slayer. Sorry to say, I didn't get you anything. Not a bloody thing." He lit the cigarette, and took a couple of quick puffs. "But, I did think of you. Pictured you beaming, with the Scoobies singing _Happy Birthday_. Probably off-key." He took another drag on the cigarette and blew the smoke in her direction. "_Gotta do something_, I thought. So, I toasted you with my demon boys, down at _Willy's. _I said, _Here's to the Slayer, boys!_" His eyes glittered in the semidarkness.

"Great. Thanks." He had that special ability to piss her off, any time, anywhere. Situation normal.

He walked toward her, and she felt a familiar surge of adrenaline start to kick in. He stopped to adjust the reception on the television, and turned his back on her, getting ready to slouch back into his chair.

That was it, then. She wasn't sure if it was anger she was feeling anymore, or something else she couldn't find a name for. She turned quickly toward the door.

"Not staying, then?" He spoke casually, but she knew, without hearing the actual words, that it was an invitation to stay.

She could stay, and admit the _wanting_ to stay. Or she could go. Home, patrolling. Whatever, it didn't matter. She was facing the door, paralyzed with indecision, knowing that he was watching her.

At first he thought she was storming out, which she did often enough.

She just stood there.

"Never turn your back on a mortal enemy, love."

Somehow, he knew she was just as watchful as ever.

Her face was averted from him, but as he approached, he could see the delicate shell of one ear, the curve of her cheek. This was the way it always went: like a force of nature. She pulled him apart inside, moving through his innards like a hurricane. Then, she pulled him to her, with a force like gravity, collecting all of his scattered pieces.

When he got close, almost-but-not-quite touching her, he tried to turn her face toward him. He wanted to see her eyes, to see if they really were the way he remembered. Her chin resisted the gentle pressure of his hand, and he gave up, for that small half a second.

Instead, he let his hand brush across her cheek, through her hair, with its gold highlights shining in the starlight coming in through the window. He pulled her jacket off her shoulders, then slid her blouse over her head. She allowed him all of this, as she stood motionless.

A few minutes later, as they pressed tightly against one another, as Buffy braced her hands against the stone wall, as their bodies tensed, and the energy in his lower body gathered itself, Spike's hands slid across her bare torso, softly grazed her breast, and he thought of finest silk.

Much later, she lay asleep in his bed. He was stretched out next to her, propping himself up on one elbow. Buffy stirred in her sleep, and for just a moment, her eyes drifted open, not in wakeful awareness, but in the midst of dreaming.

They were the way he remembered them, the color. Jade green. Like the scarf he was never going to give her.

He brought his mouth close to hers, almost kissing, letting her soft exhales breathe into him.

He started to slide his arms around her, to gather her up, but Buffy rolled over onto her side, turning away from him. She had never awakened, and continued to sleep, soundly and quietly.

Happy birthday, Buffy.


End file.
